


Office Hours

by Upupanyway



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Professors, F/M, M/M, Multi, Nothing underage, Polyamory, Professors, and matt has an awkward and persistent crush, and they all end up kissing about it, foggy and marci are married, professor foggy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23047714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway
Summary: Matt hits it off with his professor and becomes shamefully infatuated.But he's pretty fucking married. It's just how these things go.(AU where they met in undergrad but Foggy's not a student, and where Matt really likes competency. Marci is very understanding about it.)
Relationships: Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Marci Stahl, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Marci Stahl, Matt Murdock/Marci Stahl
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58





	Office Hours

**Author's Note:**

> my friend told me i have a very particular type, and you know what. maybe i do. this is very self indulgent, and it's me kinning matt murdock really hard again.

It starts with a musing and it turns into a fantasy. It's a harmless fantasy, because that’s all it will ever be.

It's always the same. Professor Nelson (who insists on being called  _ Foggy _ , of all things), at the podium. Matt's raised hand. Something brilliant. Praise.

In his fantasy, Professor Nelson walks up to him, ruffles his hair, and calls him something intimate and sweet, and he gets to be the star student for the lecture.

And then, when the class is dismissed, Matt would hang around no one would bat an eye because he’d be Professor Nelson’s favourite.

"Murdock?" the professor would say, fond and dark.

"Yes, Professor?" he'd reply, aloof and sweet (he never knew himself to be sweet, but for Foggy, he would be. Foggy is a sweet man, and they should match.)

"You were very insightful today. I'd like to discuss some things with you during office hours, if that's okay."

And Matt would follow, because there would be a sultry hum in Foggy's throat and Matt would be hopeful.

The door would swing open and the pair would step inside.

"You wanted to talk?" Matt would say, innocent and open. And Foggy would close the door to back Matt into it.

"Not so much with words," his professor would respond, already breathless, one thigh already ghosting the heavy flesh between Matt's thighs.

"Oh."

"Is this okay, Matty?" Foggy would ask, because he is a gentleman. But they would already be kissing.

And Matt would say yes to him, because he can't stop himself. And he would keep saying it forever.

Instead, Foggy Nelson continues his lecture, and when he asks a question, he doesn't choose Matt to answer, probably because Matt can't even bring himself to raise his hand.

-

"C'mon, please?" begs Danny, who never pays attention in class. "You have the recording anyway, just let me listen to it once."

Matt frowns at him, clutching the recording device close to his chest because it's  _ his _ , damn it. "You need permission from Professor Nelson."

"Ugh, fine. I'll go ask him," he says, cloyingly easily. He shrugs on his packed bag and waits for Matt to follow.

"What, now?" Matt says, a little flustered. He hadn't been expecting to talk to the professor today. He would have combed his hair.

"Yeah, now! I need it now, and he's right there."

Dazedly, Matt slings his bag over his shoulders and follows Danny to the stage, where Professor Nelson calls out to him.

"The stage is just in front of you, buddy. Three steps up."

"Thank you, professor," he says, hollow.

Danny blazes on. "Hey Foggy," he greets casually, shocking Matt's careful sensibilities.

"What's up, Danny? Do you need the notes package again? Did the email go to your spam again?" It irritates Matt that Danny's the one doing well in class, because he's not some creepy coward too afraid to attend office hours.

"No, it's okay, I got it. Actually, Matt and I were wondering if you could give me permission to use his lecture recordings?"

"Sure," Professor Nelson shrugs, shattering the precious ownership that Matt had had of Foggy's recorded voice. "But it is primarily for his accessibility. So only if he's done with it, and if he's willing to let you use it."

"Perfect," Danny smiles, and Matt hears enough to know that Professor Nelson gives him a pat on the shoulder. "See, Matt? Nothing to worry about. Just hand it off to me once you're done with it. I gotta head to my next class." And with that, he hops off of the stage and makes his way to the exit.

And then it's just the two of them, Professor Nelson and Matt. Alone in an empty auditorium. Anything could happen.

"Actually, if you have time, do you want to come to my office hours? It's my loneliest session because it's smack dab in the middle of the day and everyone else has classes. I have some things to discuss."

It's nothing like the breathy tone he uses in Matt's shameful fantasies. It's probably about his grades or something boring. Still, he entertains the notion that it might not be.

-

The walk over is chaste and friendly. Matt has his cane out in front of him, and Foggy helpfully narrates through the crowd. He also narrates the colour of the rose garden and the flying birds overhead. Poetic things that are beautiful and generous to give to a blind kid.

He's so fucked.

Professor Nelson unlocks the door to his office and lets Matt in, leaving the door open in case any other students want to stop by. Matt respectfully takes the seat all the way on the other side of Foggy's desk.

It's dusty, so Foggy opens a window and the courtyard outside offers them some cheery white noise.

"So what did you want to discuss, professor?" Matt asks, squirming when he realizes how close it is to his mental script, though really there's only one participant.

Professor Nelson takes his seat and loosens his tie. Matt swallows. Then, completely innocuously, the professor says, "Oh, well, we're a few weeks in now, so I was just wondering about our accessibility services. I like to check in. I already talked with another student about the ramp situation in the room and another about accommodated testing. I was wondering if there's anything else you need to make your time in my class easier?"

"No, no. It's been alright."

"Well, if there's anything at all, let me know. Or if you want to discuss the course material, I'd be happy to do so."

Matt has been struggling in the class. He's ashamed of it, but there's something about the abstract concepts that Professor Nelson goes on about that's just difficult to grasp. Matt has always been more concrete in his thinking.

He knows, stupidly, that part of this infatuation comes from liking that the man is smarter than him.

"The notes packages I give Danny also happen to be screen-reader compliant, you know. There are five other students on the mailing list. It really wouldn't be any trouble to add your email to it," the professor offers kindly.

"That would be perfect, thank you."

"Alright," he says. There's a pause filled with meticulous typing, and then a breath. "You don't have to be afraid of me, you know. There's no reason to be so tense."

Matt wills his shoulders down an inch. But no, fear doesn't describe it.

"Also, you really can call me Foggy. Literally everyone else does. It's not just a special privilege I give to my grad students."

Matt nods.

He resolves to leave because there's something about being in the same room as his friendliest professor. There's something about the mingling of their heat in an already hot day. It's just not appropriate. Except what comes out of his mouth is, "Actually, if you don't mind, could we discuss the whole cultural aspect? I don't understand how it's relevant to American case law."

"Ah, so he speaks! I'd be happy to, Matthew."

"Matt," he insists, feeling brave. "Please, I prefer Matt."

"Alrighty, Matt. So what about it don't you understand?"

"Like, all of it?"

"Oh, boy. Alright, buckle down, I guess. We'll go slow."

Matt squirms again.

-

It's strictly professional. Foggy's a professional. It's his job to teach people. Still, it feels special because every Wednesday, they spend two hours together in Foggy's cramped office where Matt climbs his way of C territory and into well into B, and he's climbing higher still.

Sometimes, Foggy buys him a disgusting campus treat for lunch, and Matt has to pretend to enjoy it because Foggy clearly does. That feels pretty damn special, too.

But Foggy's married. Perhaps that should be the first thing. He has a  _ wife _ . And he's probably not interested in men or students half his age. It should be a no-brainer.

It throws a wrench into his plans to get over his crush when Matt starts to  _ smell _ like him, though; the heavy sandalwood of Foggy's cologne lingers on his clothes, the dull tang of paper dust, the metallic ink of cheap ballpoint pens, all of it wraps around Matt and he starts to smell like Foggy's office, his favourite place. There’s also something high and fruity in the back of his presence, and he’s come to associate it with Foggy’s unnamed wife. On Wednesdays, he imagines it dissipating. He imagines that the two hours they spend together is enough to wear it away. That, and the pile of rich, hearty food that's always well spiced.

"Jesus, you eat a lot,” Foggy remarks one week.

It’s because he eats like a hungry orphan raised amongst a hundred other hungry teenage boys, but Foggy doesn’t need to know that. Selfishly, he hopes it's not unattractive.

“I forgot how great a teenage metabolism is,” he continues.

"What do you mean?" Matt starts to ask. It's more than metabolism. Matt works out and he wants Foggy to notice.

“Believe it or not, I was also once a teenager.”

“No, really?” Matt says, teasing to hide his usual fluster. “I sort of imagined you just sprang from the earth a fully-formed forty year old.”

“Hold your tongue, Matthew! I am  _ thirty-eight _ . It’s a world of difference, let me tell you. My wife’s forty, and she tells me all these horror stories. Can't even fathom it.”

Matt sighs. And just like that the spell is broken. They’re too disparate again. They’re just student and teacher. Just almost friends.

“Tell me about your wife,” Matt says curiously, because he is a masochist of the worst sort.

Foggy hums appreciatively. “Okay, but don’t expect me to give you any relationship advice. I’m not, like, a phenomenal husband or anything.” Matt doubts that, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Foggy clears his throat. “She’s a lawyer. She was a lawyer when I met her at an internship between my second and third year in law school. We became fast friends because everyone else was too busy climbing the corporate ladder to enjoy the gardens and street vendor hot dogs. Granted, she needed a lot of convincing, but we got to know each other. There's a lot of stuff in between, but all I know is that New York was never as beautiful as those late nights with her and I could see the sky reflected in her eyes.”

Those are words, and they're beautiful words for someone else. It hurts when they endear him to Foggy even more. "But how did you know she was the one?" He asks to keep Foggy talking about love.

"Hah, well," drawls the older man, leaning back. He's reminiscent and relaxed. Matt wrestles with petty jealousy and gladness that Foggy is happy. "We were at this mutual friend's party and she snorted at one of my jokes. She spilled wine all over the carpet. The thing is, she didn't even know it was me. She had her back turned, but she heard the punchline and started cracking up."

"And that's it? You have the same weird sense of humor?"

"No, it's about afterwards. She made everyone evacuate the room so she could clean it up. I thought it was funny how willing she was to do the right thing, but how adamant she was that no one see her do it. It was such a weird mix of humility and standoffishness that I couldn't stop thinking about it."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Why do you love her?"

Foggy sighs, thinking about it. "There's something you learn about love in your later years, Matt. It's never one thing. It's not even a collection of things. It's something you create together. I love her because she has makes me a better person for tolerating her, and I appreciate that she has grown to accommodate me, too. I love her because we made an agreement to be kind to each other unconditionally. I love her because she loves me.

"She laughs at my jokes before she groans about my awful humor. She hates affection but she holds my hand anyway because it comforts her. She's not a dancer, but when I put on music, I can convince her to sway with me. These things, we negotiate who we are individually and together. Life is more challenging with her, and it's so much more vibrant. There's no 'why.' There's the simple fact that we love each other and we like it that way."

He's so thoroughly besotted. Curiosity takes Matt and he wonders what kind of woman could capture Foggy's attention. He wonders if she knows how lucky she is. "But what's she  _ like _ ?" he thinks to ask after a while.

Foggy cuts through to his core with a bright laugh. “Doing a research paper or something? What can I say? She’s not the best listener. She’s abrasive. She takes too long in the shower and makes fun of my singing voice."

He says it so fondly that Matt knows it's over. The game is won, and not by Matt. His wife makes him happy. He shouldn’t begrudge him that. “I’m happy for you, Franklin," he says, as honestly as he can.

“And that’s another thing. She never calls me ‘Franklin’.”

Matt laughs, the tension in him easing. “And that’s a virtue?”

“It is because I like it.”

“Well, she’s your wife. You’d probably like anything she does.”

Foggy shakes his head, rumbling laughter coming out of him in little breaths. “That’s probably true, but don’t say anything. Her head’s big enough as it is.” He settles into his seat, and it creaks a little under his weight. “Don’t worry, you’ll find your person.”

“If you say so,” Matt agrees lamely.

-

She comes to Foggy’s lecture one day. She audits in the front row, and when the class is over, she walks right up to him and kisses him on the cheek. It shocks Matt at first, because she hadn't registered to his senses. He had thought she was a student. But she strides up to him confidently and gives a wet smack to his skin and Matt realizes how much they smell like each other.

“What are you doing here?” Foggy laughs as he wipes lipstick off his face.

“I’ve just been missing you lately. I was wondering if you could meet during office hours,  _ professor _ ,” she whispers to Foggy. Matt shouldn’t be able to hear, he’s half an auditorium away, but he does.

“Do you have questions about my dick?” Foggy asks, voice husky and low. Matt should leave. “Because I’m sure you know all the answers already. You’re my best student.”

“I’d like to negotiate some  _ extra credit _ , if you don’t mind.” She takes his hand and he kisses her knuckles. Matt waits in the front row trying not to think about anything.

“As much as I would love that, I do have actual students that attend. We can discuss it at home.”

She blows a raspberry in the air and pinches his cheek before pulling him into a sweet, dry kiss. “I look forward to it. I have the whole day off, so I’ll be thinking about you. We have a court case to celebrate.”

“No way, you won? Against McDuffie?” She nods with a shuffle of long hair. The buttery, rich shampoo he had known for months wafts into his nose. “Congratulations, hon. I’ll pick up some champagne.”

“And I’ll pick up one of those disgusting bacon limburger cheesecakes you like so much,” she says, hopping off the stage in sharp stilettos. She blows a kiss to him and Foggy, dork that he is, pretends to catch and stash it in his pocket.

Before the door swings open, Foggy calls out to Matt. “Sorry about that. The missus is so demanding,” he says loudly enough for her to hear. He can’t be sure, but Matt thinks maybe she flips him off before walking out into the street.

Matt laughs at the pair of them. “Please never discuss your  _ dick _ on this stage again, Professor Nelson.”

“You heard that, huh?”

“Yes. My hearing is  _ advanced _ .”

“Yeah, how much did they sharpen when you became blind?” Foggy jokes, giving Matt a heart attack. “Sorry, that’s probably not appropriate. But you’re right. No student should ever be made privy to the fact that I do, in fact, have certain organs.”

“Foggy, no!” he chastises sternly. He hates to admit it, but it’s been a long while since he had thought of himself as Foggy’s student. At least, not  _ just _ his student.

Foggy laughs boisterously and taps Matt on the shoulder to get him to stand up. And thus, they begin their weekly trek to his little dusty office.

“Can- can you lead me?” Matt asks, swallowing his trepidation.

“What do you mean?” Foggy says, sidestepping a walking student and bumping into Matt.

“Just let me hold on to your arm and guide me out of this crowd, I suppose?” Matt explains, nearly bumping into someone as well. He could have avoided her, but he wanted to make a point. When Foggy doesn’t respond, he says, “I know you’re not supposed to touch your students, but it’s hardly sordid. Think of it as an accessibility thing.” He nearly trips on some uneven sidewalk. He wasn’t even pretending about that one, he was just distracted.

“Alright, sure. Whatever you need,” he cedes at last, guiding Matt’s hand to his elbow, where even through the layers of fabric, he can feel the pudgy arm and the bicep underneath.

Foggy is not a game. He is not to be won. But the feeling of his  _ friend _ laughing along to his jokes and the steady warmth of him at his side, it certainly doesn't feel like losing.

-

They’re friends. It doesn’t matter what Foggy says, because they’re friends. Matt knows this. But he is also Matt's teacher. His straight, married teacher who is twice his age. He keeps telling himself this because he knows they don't make sense together.

But they’re friends, and that’s already a show of nepotism. He broke one rule for Matt already, what's another? What’s another five or so?

In the quiet of night, he still has fantasies. They're less harmless now, and with each one the urge to reach out and touch grows more pressing and more intense.

He imagines Foggy walking him to the office again. He imagines backing Foggy up to the closed door behind them.

“You’re a student, Matt,” Foggy tells him gently. “We shouldn’t.”

“Just this once, Foggy. Please. I’ll be out of your hair forever,” he says, breathy against Foggy’s lips. He’s only nineteen, but he’s already two inches taller than his professor.

“I’m married.”

“Please?”

“This is against so many rules, Matthew. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do, Foggy. Please, just one exception. That’s all. Let me be an exception, just this once.”

Those are some of his kindest fantasies. He has worse ones. Ones where they wait for all the other students to leave to kiss messily on the stage. Ones where he lets Matt undress him and take him into his mouth while he grades papers. Ones where he bends Matt over the desk and kisses the back of his neck as his heavy hands roam his skin.

His worst ones are the ones where he takes his ring off for Matt before embracing him for long moments. He has vile fantasies where they’re just holding hands in the park. Wretched yearnings where they’re fully clothed in bed, petting each other’s hair and talking about anything.

-

When he graduates, he gets to have dinner at Foggy’s house. It’s intimate between he, Foggy, and Marci, the missus. It has been two years since he was first shocked by her presence, but he has since learned that she is, in fact, a decent sort of person. Not warm, but loving in her ways. He can tell she cares about him, and that’s all he needs.

Foggy goes to retrieve the salmon from the kitchen when she pats him on the hand. “We actually bought them pre-seasoned, but he wants to impress you,” she says. It’s fond and secretive, as if she’s letting him into a tiny world only they two will ever experience. He decides that he likes her. “Lord knows neither of us were made to be cooks. Be as vocal about your praise as you can be without going over the top, alright, Matt?”

He smiles at her and he feels himself blush from contentment. “Noted.”

-

Matt also pursues law, and he still attends office hours when he can, though the schedule changes every year. He picks the least busy session every time, of course, and they miraculously stay friends through it.

He and Marci find out about him, eventually. About his blindness, about his upbringing, his violence. They accept him begrudgingly, then with the same exasperated devotion with which they tackle everything else in life.

-

One day, he’s having dinner with the two of them at his new loft apartment. Packed boxes are still strewn about for him to bump his toes on. He’s in his socks and T-shirt, with Foggy and Marci on either side of him, chatting idly and holding hands behind the sofa.

He had won his first case where he was the lead, and when it was over, he heard Marci’s sharp stilettos on the floor. She had been auditing for him.

“Congratulations, Mr. Murdock. You might make a decent attorney yet,” she said, kissing his cheek.

“Thank you,” he replied, smiling at the ground.

The rest of his team gave him a wolf whistle and turned away quickly when Marci turned to them.

“Do you have any plans to celebrate?”

The team had been planning on the pub across the street, but suddenly that idea lost its appeal.

“Do you have any to invite me to?”

“Well, Foggy and I have some white wine and chocolate strawberries lying around if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Marci raises her glass and touches it to the two in front of her. The crisp clinking echoes and reverberates in Matt’s fingers around his glass and he closes his eyes to it. She makes a ridiculous toast, something flowery and partially hopeful and teasing all at once. They’re settled in a pile now, warm and intimate, and the ways she makes fun of him tingle at his skin as her knee rests against his.

He finds himself laughing, burying his face into Foggy’s shoulder.

“He’s going to do great things, this Matty boy,” she says at last, tender and honest. She takes his hand in hers and gives it a good strong pat. Foggy kisses his temple and he sits with them, feeling whole for a moment.

-

Guilt has a funny way of morphing into indulgence and addiction.

When he imagines it now, he thinks about how Marci would taste. He imagines the soft, alarmed hiss as Foggy opens the door to find Matt on top of her.

And he wouldn't apologize, and Foggy wouldn’t leave. He would close the door behind him and guide Matt’s hands to her breasts, her hips, the nape of her soft neck.

“She likes it like this,” he would say. “Try it like this.”

He’d do so well for the both of them. He knows that he would. He just knows it’s too much to ask for.

-

Marci turns fifty on a warm summer day. It’s a happy celebration, full of sweet drink and good cheese and familiar laughter. 

“Why haven’t you found someone to settle down with?” she laments, warm off of the drink. Her party had left for the night at it’s hardly ten o’clock. It’s the first party of theirs that Matt’s attended where he isn’t the youngest person there and he figures it’s something significant. “You’re so handsome. Handsome fucker. No, handsome  _ devil _ ,” she snickers. “You should have someone.”

“I have you and Foggy,” he says simply. “You take care of me.” She shifts to lie down on his lap, and he plays with her hair.

“You’re what? Twenty-nine? You could be getting laid a lot more,” she clarifies, humming tiredly as he bunches her hair up. It smells sweet and rich, lavish like her soft skin. She hands him an elastic and he ties a bun for her right at the top of her head.

“I could be,” he agrees.

She hums again, languidly. She’s almost asleep when his hand traces her neck.

“Oh,” she realizes.

“Yeah,” Matt agrees.

“Are you sure?” She sits up to study him and he surges forth to kiss her.

Her lips are, objectively, very nice. They’re soft and taste like her expensive, slightly sweet lipstick, and they leave a waxy residue on Matt’s. She kisses him roughly, a little sloppily around the cocktails they’ve been having all night. He wonders if she kisses Foggy like this, messy and wanting, or if she’s sweeter. He thinks maybe Foggy would be slow and generous, full of hands and plush lips. He can’t imagine Foggy as anything other than soft, and the thought of Foggy opens something large and looming in his soul. He brings Marci up to sit on his lap properly, to straddle him, her skirt riding up her thighs. Her legs feel like nylon, and he traces the texture all the way up to where they’re held in place with a garter belt.

“Oh,” Foggy says, dropping his plastic cup from the hallway.

Matt swears softly and closes his eyes.

“Sorry, it’s not what it looks like, I swear,” he lies, trying not to look like he had just betrayed his best friend in the worst possible way. He tries to wipe some of the lipstick off his face with his hand, though he thinks that he just smudges it more.

“Come here, Foggy-Bear,” she beckons calmly, and he follows. His heart breaks, and he hopes Foggy isn’t this much of a sucker, letting Marci do what she wants while he cleans up after them. He deserves better than that, and Matt feels like utter shit.

But she drags him in for a sweeping, romantic kiss and it shouldn’t work, but Foggy doesn’t sound ready to burst into tears or anything, so Matt just sits there as his best friends make out on top of him. 

Nevermind that this is the most interesting thing that Matt’s ever been party to. Nevermind that this feels more inevitable and  _ right _ than anything that’s happened to him in the last twenty years. It’s not right, and they’re married. Matt’s erection has no place in the mix. He would have left were it not for Marci’s supple thighs pinning him down. He likes to believe he’s respectable enough to want to leave.

“You sure?” Foggy asks when they part.

“If you’re okay with it. I know he’s your student and all.”

“Former student,” Matt cuts in.

“Former student,” Foggy agrees. “Want to talk about it, though? What do you want out of this?” he asks Matt, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his top button. He’s been a little sweaty from catering to everyone, and he can smell what exertion is like on Foggy’s skin.

Matt reaches out and grabs Foggy’s arm. “You,” he says. “I want you to stay, please.” He tugs the older man down and catches his lips, smearing his wife’s makeup on him even more. Graciously, Foggy kisses back, chaste and sweet, a perfect gentleman. “Please,” he says again, feeling vindicated for his teenage self. He can’t help but smile.

Foggy kisses him on the forehead and turns to Marci. “And how do you want this, Marce?”

She huffs and deflates. “I really wouldn’t mind watching you two, honestly. It’s been an exhausting day and I’m pooped. Matty?”

“Anything. Please. Both of you, you’re killing me here,” he says, feeling hot all over and watched intently by the pair of them.

Marci palms his crotch for a second and kisses his neck with a dry smack before hopping off. “Soon, okay? Both of you, naked in bed. Five minutes. I’m going to slip into something more comfortable.”

-

Apparently, she really means comfortable, because he hears her unzip her dress to shrug into a very large sweater and sweats. When she goes into the bathroom to wash up for the night, Matt and Foggy sit and wait, naked on the bed, touching shoulder to ankle.

"I didn't know you were," Matt starts with nowhere to go. "That you two-"

"I am. Always have been attracted to men. Sort of seemed irrelevant because you were a kid. And yes. We do. For a while now, though not frequently. You're our first friend to do this, though. The first one we hoped would stay for breakfast."

True happiness is compromise. He knows it, but he doesn’t quite feel like it’s true anymore.

"I love you, Foggy. You should know where I stand. I’ve loved you forever. Since undergrad. Sorry if it makes this awkward, but I do."

Foggy takes a hand in both of his, skin more weathered than Matt remembers it being. "I knew,” he confesses. “But you never said anything, and I figured it was inappropriate. It still feels kind of wrong, to be honest."

"It's been a long while since I've been a blushing virgin or a student, you know."

"Yeah, I know. You've been graying, actually."

"I have not," Matt says, pouting and shifting a leg onto Foggy's. It's strange now, how much of their skin is touching. It's thrilling.

"Let me get a good look at you," Foggy teases, tilting Matt's face towards him. It's authoritative and certain, and Matt's dick decides it's a good time to make its presence known. Then, a sharp pluck at his scalp shocks him. "Gray hair. There's more. I swear on my life."

Matt leans in to kiss him, just because he can, and he turns to the side so that both his legs are on Foggy's lap, now.

He's had this fantasy before. He wants to make the most of it.

His thigh grazes Foggy's flaccid appendage, and electricity shoots down his spine, though he tries not to show it.

"And you? You must look ancient."

"Vivacious. As blonde as when I was a teen, I swear."

"I'll choose to believe it, professor. You've never led me astray before."

Foggy's fingers reach across his chest and pinch at his nipples.

"Ow."

"Stop?"

"No."

"Do you have a safe word?"

"Moist."

"Hah, yeah. A real mood killer," Foggy muses, running a hand through Matt's hair. "You're so strange. Ours is 'aubergine,' by the way."

"Why?" Matt asks as Marci walks back in.

"Because it's a stupid word that shouldn't exist," she explains. "Makes me laugh. Foggy figured we should have a safe word that makes me laugh so it'll cheer me up if something's not working." Her hair's still in the bun, and she pads around to their plush chaise and she sprawls across it.

“Alright, boys, put on a show. I need to see my husband hot and bothered to distract me from the fact that I'm now ancient."

"You're gorgeous, dear. More beautiful every day I see you,” Foggy tells her.

"Bah, you sap. Go on, pay your Matthew some attention."

Foggy coughs. “My Matthew?”

“Your Matthew,” Matt agrees, shifting to pull Foggy on top of him. “Kiss me, old man.”

“Rude,” the older man says.

“Punish me, then. That’s just as good.”

It earns him a yank to the ear followed quickly by a bite to his neck. “Do you know how demanding you were as a student? Three years and six classes with me. There wasn’t a semester where you weren’t chasing me down for hours a week,” a bite to his ear, “following me around like a lost duckling.” A kiss to his already buzzing lips. Some tongue. Very tasteful. “And don’t get me started on summers. How did you even know where to find my firm?”

“Google.”

“You little stalker.”

“I bought you dinner every week for a decade, you ingrate,” Matt countered, wrapping his legs around Foggy’s waist, tilting his hips up to brush their groins together.

“You were a pain in my ass, kiddo. And nowadays you come home to me and my wife, bleeding on our carpet half the time.”

“Yes, take out that aggression, professor,” Matt says, grinning and delirious as Foggy thrusts between them, his shockingly large cock rubbing against Matt’s. Marci snorts at them from her seat. “Punish me, sir.”

Foggy kisses him instead. “You know I love you, right? It’s been a joy to see you grow into the young man you are today. You’re accomplished, and kind, and I’m proud of you.”

“Fuck me,” Matt sighs.

“I know, I know, vulnerability isn’t your strong suit.”

“Foggy," he says patiently. "I’ve loved you for ten years. You’ve been a splendid mentor and a valuable friend. There’s not a day that goes by that I’m not grateful for your presence in my life. I’ve waited for ten years to get your dick inside me, so I’m begging you now, please, Foggy, fuck me.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah, one sec. Marce, darling, could you fetch the kit?”

“The point of this was getting to see you naked without all this work,” she reminds him. Still, she does as she’s asked, and she reaches into a drawer by the bedside for the lube and condoms.

Matt frowns at the latex. “Do we have to? I’m clean, I swear.”

“Later, Matty. But it’s Marci’s birthday and we aren’t gunking up the sheets because Foggy doesn’t want to run any laundry tomorrow.”

“You’re so boring,” Matt says, already slipping a finger into himself while Foggy struggles with the foil packaging. He gets it on eventually, and helps Matt with one, too.

“You get different priorities when you’re older. At my age, it’s about doing everything to avoid doing more work later.” He unrolls a towel from the box and lays it down under them with some fumbling because Matt refuses to cooperate.

“Alright, give me your ass, I’m ready,” Foggy announces finally. Ten years for this moment and it’s overtures. It’s comfortable and amicable and somehow completely familiar.

“Finally,” Matt says, instead of all that sappy crap. He wipes his hand on the corner of the towel and crawls towards Foggy, who receives him with another intoxicating kiss. It’s not lost on Matt that their position gives Marci the best view of Foggy’s lavish backside. She moans a little when he bends down to guide Matt onto his back. It really is a nice ass. Matt gives it a squeeze from his position.

“Spread for me, Matty,” he orders. It’s gentle but authoritative enough that Matt complies without a second though, spreading his legs wide and resting his feet by his hips. He relaxes on the Stahl-Nelson marriage bed and arches his back because it shows off his toned torso. Foggy slides a finger in and searches for his prostate, which-

Yeah.

There it is.

“Noted,” Foggy says, adding another finger. Wordlessly, Marci makes her way to her husband and wraps her arms around him from behind. She kisses his neck, and it occurs to him that they’re both watching him squirm.

“He’s pretty, isn’t he?” Marci says, reaching lower to stroke Foggy’s cock lazily.

“Yeah, unfortunately. It makes him a menace.”

“No, it suits him.”

Matt groans. Marci shifts onto the bed, making it dip where she sits.

“Move your head, Matty.” He lifts his head for her and sets it down on her lap. “You doing okay?” He nods. She plays with his hair and it’s soothing. She reaches over for his hand with her free one and it’s hard not to feel secure in whatever this is, new as it may be. He’s so relaxed, he hardly notices when Foggy adds another finger, and he’s so open. He feels ready for anything.

“I’m going in, Matty, brace yourself,” he whispers, hoarse. Foggy takes his other and, and it’s so intimate, it hardly registers that Foggy’s sinking into him.

Foggy leans down to kiss him some more as he starts to thrust slowly. He’s gentle and sweet, attentive and  _ whole _ as he fills Matt up again and again. Marci strokes his forehead as it gathers sweat and he sinks further and further into her lap. He swears a string of pretty expletives as he brings Foggy in closer, deeper as he wraps his legs around him. On and on the endless night goes, as infinite as their bodies as they merge and meet and sink into each other. Matt gets to come with Foggy’s tongue on him, and he gets to fall asleep with Foggy in his arms. He gets to listen to Foggy and Marci whisper little domesticities to each other as he sinks into gratified restfulness.

“Are you okay?” he hears Marci ask. She plays with the fingers of Foggy’s beautiful hand.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just all a little unexpected, you know?”

“We could love him, don’t you think? If he’s willing to have us, of course. You’ve always been the best part of him. Of both of us.”

“Don’t talk like that. I’m hardly any more virtuous than either of you. I do suppose we should talk in the morning, though shouldn’t we?”

“We should.”

“But Marce?”

“Hm?”

“We already love him, don’t we?”

“We do. Now go to sleep, you old sap, or I’ll file a noise complaint against you.”

Matt sleeps with a smile pressed into Foggy’s neck and it’s sort of everything.

**Author's Note:**

> [yeehaw](https://artbymintcookies.tumblr.com/)


End file.
